Night Owl
by Starwind77
Summary: Lorenzo unwinds after a long day of wading through bank statements, but unbeknownst to him, another watches from the window.  Giovanni/Lorenzo


**Title:** Night Owl  
**Rating:** NC-17 for explicit sexual situations  
**Pairing:** Giovanni/Lorenzo  
**Word Count:** 2,874  
**Description:** Lorenzo unwinds after a long day of wading through bank statements, but unbeknownst to him, another watches from the window.  
**Author's Note:** Kinkmeme fill! Because Lorenzo is oh so sexy, and that sneaky bastard Giovanni loves to watch.

Giovanni lowered his hood as he approached the Palazzo Medici, searching the courtyard for his Lord. The mission in Venezia had gone well. He'd been able to track down Stefano and tail the man to his nighttime rendezvous, which as it turned out, was not a murderer's den, not a Templar's meeting, but rather something more... personal, albeit no less illegal. Chuckling, the assassin hid a smile in his cowl. Lorenzo's fears of conspiracy might be unfounded, but Giovanni suspected that the Principe of Firenze would soon be called upon to intervene in a certain sodomy trial, that is, if he wanted to retain his contact within the _Signoria_.

With good tidings on his lips for once, Giovanni returned early to Florence in hopes of catching his Lord before the festa di San Giovanni Battista.1 A series of bad loans by the Milano branch of the Medici bank had left Lorenzo in a sour mood, and the Duke seemed less than eager to make a public appearance until he'd sorted matters out. The reassurance of Stefano's loyalty would lift a great weight off his shoulders in time for the summer festivities.

However, as Giovanni neared the palazzo entrance, he was stopped by a man at the door.

"My apologies, Messer Giovanni. But his Magnificence has already retired to his chambers." The servant sketched an apologetic bow. "May I deliver a message instead?"

Frowning, Giovanni glanced up at the sky. The cathedral bells had just tolled nine when he arrived at the city gates, and night owl that he was, Lorenzo never went to bed before ten. Even on Sundays, the Medici patriarch could be found ensconced in his library, perusing books of poetry, ancient history or philosophy, a leather marker twirling idly between his fingertips. Giovanni's gaze shifted from the study window to the other side of the palazzo, where a warm glow emanated from the master bedroom. It seemed he would have to pay his Lord a private visit.

"That won't be necessary." Abruptly, the assassin turned on his heel and disappeared, a shadow gliding across the rooftops.

~o~

The nib of the quill broke with an audible _snap_, splattering a blotch of ink across the parchment like a fat spider squashed by a tome. Cursing roundly, Lorenzo threw the ledger at his desk, hands clenching in frustration. If numbers felt pain, he'd have long had the column of figures bound and racked, along with perhaps the entire _abbaco_2 community for devising such a scourge as bookkeeping. As it was, he could only lean back in his chair and press a knuckle to his forehead, willing the pounding hooves there to cease.

It was Accerrito's fault, he decided. Lorenzo never did trust that feckless dilettante. What had begun as a simple favor to Galeazzo quickly spiraled into a series of bad loans across Milano, mounting debts that the Duke refused to pay and his managers would not yield, lest their carefully constructed house of cards bring the entire Medici branch down with it. Only an intervention by his _ministro_ had prevented Galeazzo from stringing up that idiot by the ears, even though Lorenzo desired nothing more than to kill Accerrito himself. But with Francesco away smoothing tempers, he was left to audit the books, a task he'd abhorred since his schoolboy days.

Then, of course, there was this accursed heat...

Rising from his chair, Lorenzo stalked to the window beside his desk and flung aside the curtains. The pale moon over Firenze cast an ivory glow over the palazzo gates, illuminating the spires of ivy that wreathed their twin columns. He unlatched the windowpane to let in a whisper of cool breeze, eyes sweeping over his home, but did not see the ghostly form that paused mid-climb below the balcony, ducking silently into the shadows. A faint smile touched his lips, as he recalled how he used to roam the city streets at night, Giovanni's presence a secret by his side. The latter always knew which shortcuts to take and back alleys to avoid, leading them to places his father never would have approved. Even after donning the mantle of power, Lorenzo still indulged the occasional trip to Careggi with his assassin, a welcome respite from the demands of office.

But, he sighed reluctantly, returning to his desk once more, Giovanni was in Venezia and wouldn't be back for another week. He could expect no relief from this evening's burden. Slumping in his chair, Lorenzo glared balefully at the Sisyphean task before him. The ink stain had spread in his absence, now less a spider than a loathsome octopus, tentacles choking the last column of figures on the page. He would have to begin anew.

Growling in frustration, he shoved the parchment onto the floor. The pain in his brow had gotten worse, and he'd still to touch his dinner of bread and roast meats on the corner of his table. At the pace that he was going, he would be lucky to wake in time for the ambassador's report tomorrow. If only Giovanni were here, he mused again. Yes, if his assassin were here, none of this would be troubling him. The man always did have more patience for arithmetic, a patience Lorenzo never shared and was more than happy to oblige with a permanent place on the Medici payroll. Over the years, he'd come to rely much on the other's support, and not just in commerce. By day, Giovanni's fingers might be those of a banker, relieving him of the humdrum duties of the family business, but at night... an involuntary shiver raced through his spine.

On nights such as this, they relieved a different sort of tension.

Sliding a palm across his face, Lorenzo realized that he was flushed with more than summer heat. The combination of stress, longing, and the dull ache in his forehead had made him uncomfortably aroused. Yet another distraction, he reprimanded himself sharply for behaving like a bawdy youth. Casting a glance at the door (thankfully locked), Lorenzo's eyes caught on the bottle of olive oil sitting on his dinner tray, and desire beckoned temptingly. If only for a moment, he thought. He did not want to disturb Clarice with his needs at this late hour, especially tangled as they were around the memory of his assassin. It would just be to clear his mind, so he could unsnarl the numbers that currently blurred in an inextricable cipher. Lorenzo was nothing if not efficient, and right now, efficiency dictated that he address the pounding in his head before returning to his ledgers.

Dropping his quill on his desk, Lorenzo shrugged off his cloak and, with an impatient twist, popped the button at his collar, exposing the long, pale thrum of his throat to the naked air. Closing his eyes, he ran his hand over the sensitive skin, imagining Giovanni's lips at his neck. They would breathe lightly at first, hot tremors caressing his jaw, before descending along the thick course of his artery to press against the pulse of blood there, a kiss both tender and carnal. A wet tongue would flick into the hollow of his collarbone, the weak spot that always made him tremble. Lorenzo sighed softly and fanned a palm over the arch of his chest. The midnight blue silk of his robes parted, revealing the fine, tawny hair that surrounded one nipple. He scraped a nail over the nub, then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, remembering how Giovanni would swirl and suck until the skin glistened dusky pink in the candlelight... the same shade of his cock as it popped out of that lascivious mouth, stringed with saliva. Breath quickening, he loosened the belt at his waist and slid a hand inside his breeches.

At the sight of Lorenzo unbuckling his belt, Giovanni froze. His knees barked sharply against the metal railing, as he scrambled to curb his leap onto the sill. Only raw instinct and the practice of a thousand falls kept him from tumbling off. Pulling himself back into the shadows, Giovanni glanced around nervously, sure that a guard patrol had heard his presence, but the palazzo courtyard was silent except for the faint trickle of fountain water. He breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to return to the window. Lorenzo was leaning back in his chair now, robes having slid completely off his shoulders to reveal his nude torso, bronzed by the light of the lamp, and from this angle, Giovanni could just see the peaked nipples, the sloped muscle that traced the abdomen, the growing bulge in his Lord's pants...

He tore his eyes from the sight, something between a choke and a laugh warring in his throat. So _this_ was what the Principe of Firenze got up to when he was not around. Perhaps he should've remained in Milano another day and allowed Lorenzo his distractions. Shaking his head, Giovanni tried to determine his best course of action. He'd prepared for any number of confrontations sneaking into the Duke's chambers at night, but _this_ was not one of them. Yet interrupting now would only bring embarrassment to them both, and Lorenzo's wrath was not to be trifled with. On the other hand, if he left... Giovanni's eyes wandered back to the window, where thin lace curtains were blown carelessly open by the summer breeze. His mind balked at absconding into the night, knowing his Lord was so vulnerable to any stray gaze. Caught in a bind of his own making, Giovanni could only settle back helplessly and watch Lorenzo pleasure himself in secret, mouth dry with want.

Oblivious to his audience, Lorenzo opened his eyes but a fraction to dip his fingers in the olive oil before returning them to his prick. He drew a long, shuddering breath and _squeezed_. The jolt of heat was immediate, taking him by surprise at first, so long had it been since he'd seen to his own needs, surrounded as he was by painted courtiers drawn like flies to the honey of Medici wealth. Pushing his breeches down to free his cock, Lorenzo began stroking in earnest, long fingers slicking the heavy length until it glistened, red and swollen, in the flickering candlelight. A thin gasp escaped his lips when he ran a nail along the sensitive slit, and he paused, toying with it until the muscles in his thighs jerked, twitched, his mind envisioning Giovanni's tongue around his shaft, mouth wrapped tightly beneath smoldering dark eyes.

Yes... Giovanni on his knees, head bent and fingers curled, only a whisper of fabric separating the cold-blooded killer with an oath on his lips from the hot-blooded lover swallowing Lorenzo whole. How often had a chaste kiss on his ring led them to bed? He swore the assassin did it on purpose. Lorenzo squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his mind to sharpen the details - the thick arch of that throat, stretched taut as it took him to the hilt, the nose pressed against the curls at the base of his cock, the Adam's apple that would bob, once, as Giovanni gulped down his seed, then settled back, smirking hungrily for more. Groaning sharply, Lorenzo tightened his fist and brought his hips up to meet the next rough stroke.

Back outside, Giovanni found himself grateful for the shadows that hid the growing flush in his cheeks and the tightness that swelled his breeches. He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to quell the lust simmering in his blood. The night air suddenly felt hot beneath the layers of his robes, already sweat-stained from days on horseback, and not for the first time did he swear vainly to avert his gaze, only to be drawn back by an imagined gasp, a moan. He supposed that when they hanged him - a hanging Lorenzo would no doubt personally oversee - his only excuse was that he had _tried_ to look away, but of what he did see, little could be worse than what he dreamed later, anyway.

But even dire threats could not stop Giovanni from drinking up the sight of his Lord, whose pants had now bunched around his ankles, exposing his stiff, throbbing cock fully to the light. Slender fingers raced rapidly over hot skin, glistening the dark red of full arousal. He felt saliva build in his mouth and wet his lips, envisioning how it would taste as he pressed his tongue to the head, just below the sensitive groove, milking a salty drop of Lorenzo's climax with the soft cry of his name. And indeed, it seemed like the Duke was imagining the same as well, for his thighs spread and hips pushed up in one long, smooth motion, as if beckoning Giovanni's mouth to their surface. When Lorenzo arched, open-mouthed, prick standing straight in the air, he had to bite his lip to stifle the moan that surged up his throat, clamping a hand hard between his legs.

Lorenzo was far past simple indulgences now, wrapped as he was in the heat of his desires, hips rocking, fist pumping, beads of sweat trickling in rivulets down his brow to pool at the crook of his neck. His breath came in shallow pants, skin sheened a golden flush, and he pushed a hand impatiently through the damp unruliness of his hair before sinking further into his chair. He was bending Giovanni over his desk now, the assassin tight and eager, impaled on his cock. With every thrust, taut muscle clenched around him, sending fireworks crackling up his spine, and the back that arched beneath was marked by his fingernails, clawed in ecstasy...

Feeling himself approach the brink, Lorenzo abruptly halted his hand, refusing himself release until he had seen the fantasy through. A low moan slipped involuntarily from his mouth, as his hips squirmed forward toward the vanished heat. It took all his self-control not to simply give one last squeeze. Pleasure pounding at the base of his skull, Lorenzo instead circled his finger lightly over the tip of his cock, rubbing the wetness there, spreading it, teasing out sharp, hitched gasps each time he pressed his thumb to the throbbing vein. He allowed himself friction only in tantalizing whisks and brushes. It was what Giovanni would do on those occasions when, exhausted from the intrigues of court, he allowed the assassin to take the lead in bed, peeling back layers of carefully sculpted calm and control to reveal the raw passions that lay beneath.

Belatedly, Giovanni realized that the hand which was supposed to stifle his erection was instead encouraging it, kneading slowly through the fabric of his breeches. Clutching his wrist, he forced his grip back to the railing. He had long passed pretensions of embarrassment by now, the deep ache in his bones accentuating every throb of his cock, heavy and stiff, yearning for a familiar touch. It was unlikely that he'd make it home (let alone meet his Lord) without a healthy dunk in the Arno. He stayed only to watch Lorenzo finish, the Duke's rapid strokes building steadier and steadier to a climax, one which he knew all too intimately.

But suddenly, Lorenzo stopped. The long, dexterous fingers stilled their ministrations, instead swirling up to caress gently at the reddened tip. Giovanni felt his mouth go dry as he watched his Lord poised on the brink, eyes squeezed shut, elegant brow furrowed in concentration. Denied pleasure _strained_ in the rigid arc of his throat. Rare was it that Giovanni had witnessed the Duke freed so completely to his passions, their couplings usually dominated by a battle of wills - one which Lorenzo often won, forcing from him the moans of capitulation - that the sight of his Lord so raw and needy in private was almost too much to bear. His body twitched violently, as if it already knew the weight of that prick inside him, and something hot and famished bubbled up like fire in his chest. Reading the silent plea on Lorenzo's lips, as the Duke forbade himself release, Giovanni abruptly made a decision. With a swoop of his cape, he leaped off the balcony... and quickly clambered to the other entrance.

His fantasies were coming to an end, but Lorenzo still clung to the broken images of brash lips and umber eyes, trying to prolong the ache that built low in his belly. Grappling with his cravings, he did not notice the flutter of a breeze, followed by faint footsteps approaching from behind. Not until a familiar shadow fell over him and strong arms embraced him and long, talented fingers pulled his orgasm from his loins, mouth drinking up his strangled cry of _Giovanni!_, did Lorenzo's eyes fly open to fix on his assassin.

~o~

In the wake of their shared passion, his entire body felt lazy, boneless, molded into the warmth of Giovanni's chest. Ledgers and ink lay scattered across his desk, a haphazard testament to the lust that overtook them.

"I should have you hanged for this," Lorenzo murmured, but the threat rang hollow as he basked in the afterglow.

"Whatever pleases your Magnificence." Giovanni's lips brushed his ear in a lingering smile.

1 Feast of St. John the Baptist. (As the patron saint of Florence, his festival can last up to three days, from June 21-24. More info found here).  
2 Literally "abbacus," but refers to the commercial mathematics and bookkeeping that a banker would know. See Abacus school and Medieval Education.


End file.
